A Son's Fate, by Norbert Kovacs

Neck-Amphora, by Exekias (Greece) c. 540 BC

A Son's Fate

l.
The newly married couple, decked in fine clothes and laurel wreaths, climbed into the chariot as the young woman walked up alongside. A fresh wreath on her own head, she raised a hand beneath the other woman's as she took the reins to the horses.

"You have great occasion to be glad, sister," Ariel told Thetis, the woman in the chariot. "The prophecies favor you and your new husband Peleus. The word is your son will be stronger than his father. What an amazing thing when you consider Peleus himself is descended from Zeus."

"I hope it will be as you say," Thetis said. "A strong and able son can prove an outstanding athlete or soldier and the pride of his family." Then tensing, she added, "Of course, these gifts from the gods can be problematic. I have heard there come caveats and snags nobody anticipates."

"Now that is no way to think of the blessing you have. The prophet couldn't have been clearer: your son will stand out among men. He's to be an example inspiring others to greatness."

"I know. But however great anyone is, they meet with trouble in life. Nobody knows all things. We make mistakes or reach too far, being less than perfect. A son can fall prey to any number of difficulties." 

Beside her, Peleus darkened, scowling. "Let's not think so grimly. We were married just now. We have the ride to my country home awaiting us and two weeks in seclusion there. Everything that should bring happy thoughts."

"You may be right; I could be over-thinking things."  Thetis fell quiet; her sister gave her a modest smile, and Peleus reined in his scowl.

Right then, the musician for the wedding reception, who had come alongside the horses, struck an air on his lyre. The music seemed the right kind to send the pair on their journey; in its flowing chords, it gave the idea of easy motion along open roads. But in it sounded a hectic countermelody; strings plucked quickly hinted at struggle and fitfulness. The young musician performed the piece with care despite its inconsistencies, his face serious and intense.

"The music to set us on our way, don't you think?" Peleus said, a pressing edge to his voice.

"It seems," Thetis said. But now the music stirred her, she thought again of the prophecy. What danger is my son supposed to face?, she asked herself. Could I protect him if I knew what it was? The musician strummed, and Thetis, yet thoughtful, turned aside.

A youth, one of Peleus's family, came now and stood before the horses, waiting to see the chariot head outward. In his new robe and cap, he appeared a comely, fine young man, his face unusually alert. Thetis fixed a considerate eye on him. He may become as remarkable and handsome as Peleus, she thought. But I wouldn't have him grow up and meet a man's challenges. The world seems ready with harm for us all once we get there. 

Thetis was roused from her thoughts as Peleus struck the backs of the horses with the reins. Their chariot started toward the road, leaving behind Ariel, musician, and boy.
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II.
The war had its own wild order, Thetis learned after her son Achilles fought at Troy. A man, fleeing over a field, could find that his enemy was suddenly at his heels, spear raised, ready to cut him down. Having no time to lose, the soldier who'd fled would turn halfway around and have to fight the other man just so. If he had luck, he could raise his shield and spear high as he battled. He would hope desperately, however, for a companion to come charging to aid him, anticipating always the fatal blow.  

Some other soldier, who feared an onrushing enemy, might kneel, praying his shield would protect him. He knew his simple wish might do no good. But then his friend would arrive, spear raised, and the tables turned. His foe, once confident and sure, would be put to the same despair he had been.

Another soldier, who had an opponent running his way, would crouch behind his shield, knee suddenly hard to the ground. His companion would rush forward, spear above the shoulder, ready to charge the foe. But this friend would see the enemy, snarling, spear and kill the first soldier who had crouched low. Pulling his weapon free, the enemy would go then after him, when he had come only to save his friend.

Cries and howls shot through the field as the men fought, struggling, dying. And amid the conflict, men charged on horseback, wielding spears high. As their horses reared, they brought death to the infantry everywhere on the ground.

In recalling the tale of Troy, Thetis pictured the men at combat, one made to kneel, another crouched behind a shield, some other half bent in turning, and realized how easily violence overtook them. When Achilles failed to keep his guard, the enemy struck, right at his heel; the luckless oversight cost him his life. 

III.
On the anniversary of their son's death, Thetis, her husband Peleus beside her, sent their finely horsed chariot down the open road. The two had arranged to visit her sister Ariel and her husband Damian for a stay at their country estate. Thetis had hoped they'd enjoy the good midsummer weather that had overtaken the region as they went. Yet the two passed along the road in the quiet, sober mood she knew too well from home. In the months since their son died, Peleus had become a troubled man, his old. firm attitude gone. She awoke at night to find him sitting up, eyes open wide and tearing, in their great bed. She would ask, concerned, what the matter was, but he'd shake his heavy head and say, "I don't know." In this strange mind, Peleus would go lost from home, too. She would discover him, wandering their fields, starting down some path then another, as if he were searching for someone. Their son, she told herself. In going down the road now, Peleus, saying little, staring blankly around them, Thetis wondered what could she, or anyone, do to rouse him from disaffection.

The two pulled into the drive before Ariel's home in mid-afternoon. Her relations were out by the portico, ready to receive them, Ariel in a plain, dark dress, Damian in a noble robe of black and red.
"Welcome again, sister and brother," Ariel said, stepping forward as Thetis brought the chariot to a halt. "I hope you both had a pleasant journey."

"Pleasant enough in this fine weather," Thetis said.

"Good. We will have the servants look to your chariot and horses, and your belongings once they arrive." Then Ariel grew quiet, the colour in her face fading as she studied her sister.

"What is it, Ariel?" Thetis asked.

"It's that you're here today. You know today's the day Achilles passed. I remember when you and Peleus were married, I had been that excited in the prophecy over your son. He was supposed to overpower anyone else." Ariel dropped her eyes, her body stiffening.

Thetis understood her sister's pain. Ariel knew she had read more into the prophecy than there was. She'd seen the promise of strength fail of invulnerability. There were dangers none of them had predicted nor Achilles avoided. She knew Ariel wished now she hadn't encouraged her to think otherwise. But knowing as much herself before Troy had proved meaningless, Thetis found. For Fate had run its course, taking her beloved son Achilles, and offered her no way to prevent it. Any word of caution she'd given proved futile, and she suffered his loss as only a mother could. Of anybody, she had suffered. Today was different, however. For seeing Ariel suffer at the thought of his death, Thetis felt that, of all the horrible things that had happened, her sister's regret, at least, didn't have to be if it were put in perspective.

"You need to think he fought bravely," Thetis said. "He belonged among the most valiant men Achaea sent to Troy, strong as the prophet said. When he died, he went down like so many others in battle. We cannot re-write those events however we would like."

"But not mourn them?" Ariel said.

"Certainly mourn. But it would not be right to go on at it this long since his death. I have felt there is a limit to that mood. I knew it when I started feeling I was losing my own life to a memory. I didn't want to go on anymore as if I also had died. Don't wear yourself down in sadness either, Ariel. It is stronger for us to accept; we move on easier."

"I will try to since you tell me." Thetis saw resolve come into her sister's face at these words and trusted her to do as she said.

Damian, who had stayed by the horses as the women spoke, came forward now, tall staff in hand, toward Peleus. "Noble brother, Peleus," he said, "let me welcome you. I hope your estate is flourishing again this summer. I would be glad to hear about your orchards and fields as we walk together." He extended a hand to motion his guest from the chariot. 

Peleus had attended quietly on the words between Ariel and Thetis, his face losing the aloof withdrawal that had marked it on the road. Perhaps Thetis's idea of moving on had hit well, for he stepped from the chariot, eyes holding back tears, to stand beside Damian, his noble friend. 

IV.
The poets offered an exciting retelling of the events at Troy, Thetis found. They spoke of the soldiers in neat combat, each man outfitted in crested helmet; before them, splendid patterned shields, held tight and firm. They said the men charged the field, eager to fight, spears raised over the shoulder. On meeting one another, opponents tensed in anticipation before they took the dramatic, decisive stride forward to attack. The narrative flowed from such details in due course, rousing and, as it seemed, splendid.

Recitals of the tale became great events in themselves. Nobles walked miles from home to hear one. Youth rode their horses to far estates where a poet was to speak. The men gathered quietly around each silver-tongued poet and listened rapt to his every word for hours. In hearing the many scenes from the war, of soldiers rushing the field, of their commanders sparring, more than one listener imagined that, though time might be running onward, they were looking over its shoulder and seeing the great events of another age and place as if they occurred now.

Thetis heard the poets give their versions of the remarkable tale and tried to imagine the war as they made it seem. She was encouraged by their claims that Achilles may have cut through and leveled his enemies at no risk to himself. The idea that soldiers fell without pain or agony pleased her, too. She would have been glad to hear her son had passed realizing only a sense of triumph in helping take Troy. But it wasn't like that, she knew. Brilliant stories can mislead however exciting they feel. Ariel and Peleus had trusted the prophet's words, and it had lead neither to good results.

As she observed more of her countrymen listening to the tale of Troy, Thetis realized their hearts grew warm with the idea of war. She heard nobles, stirred by the combats of Ajax and Menelaus, say they'd be happy to organize men against the country threatening their own. Youth from her neighbours' families practiced their horsemanship, speaking of when they might charge fields of men. From the distance of peaceful life, combat seemed a thrill and an easy temptation to heed. But Thetis thought the people who understood the pain and horror in war, as she did, might stop men from realizing any new one. Fate lost its free hand if you learned from history, she had discovered, confronting her own loss.

Norbert Kovacs

Norbert Kovacs lives and writes in Hartford, Connecticut. He loves visiting art museums, especially the Met in New York. He has published art-inspired stories in The Ekphrastic Review and Timada's Diary. His website: http://www.norbertkovacs.net. ​